What We Always Feared
by Aimael
Summary: Fears are not rational. If they were, we could prevent them and Boggarts wouldn't exist. -Oneshot collection, every chapter about a different character- DHspoilers. Slight mentions of child abuse in chapter nine. Updated very, very sporadically.
1. Harry

**Disclaimer: Last time I checked, I wasn't J.K Rowling. But I could be wrong. **

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**I** _Harry_

Not many knew what Harry Potter's boggart was. Everyone thought that his greatest fear was Dementors, and so did he.

Nor did many know that he once, in November in his fifth year, encountered a Boggart on his way from the Room of Requirement one night after a DA session. He had taken a shortcut to the Gryffindor tower and didn't pay attention. He should have.

Voldemort had been able to cast the Cruciatus curse twice on him before he finally realized that it was a Boggart. Harry had staggered back to his dorm, shaking. When Ron and Hermione asked, he snapped that he had a lot to think about and asked them to leave him alone. He couldn't bear the thought of anyone else knowing.

Harry took the long way back to the tower after that.

No, only one other person knew that his greatest fear after the 24th July in his fourth year was Voldemort. That fact was whispered into red hair a stormy night exactly four years after the incident with the Boggart.

The redhead had just smiled and held him tighter and whispered, _then you have nothing to be afraid of anymore_. He had smiled back. _True_.

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**A/N: I'm sorry if it's a bit short! Please tell me what you think, I love constructive criticism.**

**Next chapter: Sirius. Any other characters you want to read about? Any ideas? **

**You know you want me to review your stories! . **


	2. Sirius

**A/N: I promised I would update this weekend and I did. . So PLEASE review?**

**READ ME: Right. When I posted last chapter, I didn't get a single review. Okay, I thought, maybe no one liked it enough to review. That's allright, I'm here to improve. Then I check my mail and find out that some people (no names mentioned) has put this story on alert or in favourites without reviewing. Folks, that's not okay for me, I _need_ reviews to continue writing. And if you put it on alert or in favourites, _you_ want me to continue as well. Okay. The daily essay done, I hope you get my point.**

**Disclaimer: Never mine. Wish it were. **

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**II** _Sirius_

You would think that one who spent twelve years in company of their worst memories would go insane. Sirius Black thought so too. He secretly thought of himself as slightly completely mad. He had good days and bad days. The only one who knew that was Remus. He said insanity would probably go away with time, _it's only been a couple of years after all_, he said, but Sirius didn't agree. He thought that he would go even more insane with every passing day.

Sirius knew that he would die. Not they way everyone knows they will die at sometime, he knew he could, and probably would, die soon. He would miss life.

He also knew that dieing wasn't a possibility. Harry needed him, that much anyone could need an escaped innocent half-mad convict.

Sirius feared only three things. He wasn't that kind of person who worries about anything and everything.

He feared Dementors. Who in their right (or wrong) mind wouldn't?

He also feared dreams, in many different ways. He feared his daydreams. He meant that if you daydream too much, you are insane, since the only thing crazy people do is daydreaming and imagining things. He feared his nightmares. He had had horrible nightmares for a few years now. They made him feel like he was back in Azkaban. And he feared that the life he lived was a dream. That everything that had happened since he had escaped had been a dream, a lie. That he still was stuck in a dirty cell on a foggy island somewhere.

The last thing was silly, but ever since he was small he had had an irrational fear for cats. Stupid really, and embarrassing, especially since his Animagus form was a dog. James had taken every possible opportunity to tease him for that small fact.

But his Boggart didn't shape like a cat, nor like a Dementor. And it couldn't possibly shape like a dream.

It shaped like Harry. Just the usual Harry, not dead Harry or injured Harry or crying Harry. Just Harry. And then the Harry would say, _I don't need you_. And Sirius would agree, and that was what made his Boggart so terrifying. Because Harry really didn't need him, he just thought he did, or **wanted** to think he did. Harry had managed for twelve years without him, had survived Voldemort three times without him, had **grown up** without him. Harry didn't need a slightly completely mad Godfather.

So dieing was not an option. Then Harry would manage without him again, and that would make his fear come true.

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	3. Remus

**A/N: Hello again everyone! I promised it would be up today, and it is! applause **

**_NEXT CHAPTER_ will be Peter. After that, I have no idea, and I'm open for suggestions. **

**Disclaimer: The day I'll be JK Rowling will be the day Snape washes his hair. Means, never. **

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**III** _Remus_

Remus Lupin was not a coward. He didn't fear for his life, not even on the full moon when he thought, every time, that the pain would make him insane.

He feared for others lives. That he would wake up one morning after the full moon with the metallic taste of blood in his mouth and see someone lying lifeless on the floor beside him, with empty eyes staring at him. Blaming him. Her empty eyes, perhaps.

Remus Lupin was logical. He knew he didn't deserve the love of a such beautiful, funny young woman. But she did love him and he couldn't help but love her back.

He was completely devastated when he found her lying on the carpet one evening in his room at Grimauld Place, pink hair stained with blood and blue eyes staring straight forward. It seemed strangely fitting that she didn't look at him.

He stayed in his room with her for almost two hours. Then **she** stepped inside and the Boggart immediately changed back to be the moon again, but not before she had seen. She destroyed the Boggart and hugged him, and he could do nothing but continue to cry and hug her back.

She held him for a long time that night. _Do you see now_, he had asked again and again, _do you see now why we can't be together. It would be my fault_. But she didn't see why and when he had thought about it for a while, neither did he.

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	4. Peter

**A/N: Hello again. New chapter, hope you enjoy. Enough to review, anyway. (smiles)**

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Never were. **

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**IV: **_Peter_

Peter, on the other hand, was a coward. The bravery that had come to the other Marauders seemingly naturally was missing in his personality. Back in school, he had never been confident, or daring, or intelligent, or popular. Sirius was daring and confident, and so was James. Remus was a bit insecure, but popular nevertheless. Peter was just the side-kick. He was fun to be around, but clumsy and a bit dense. The others would manage just as well without him.

Everyone knew that, even the Marauders themselves.

Still, Peter was not useless. He had actually managed to become an Animagus at age fifteen, December 12th in their fifth year. James and Sirius had done it before him, but he had still done it. Since Sirius was born in October and Peter in May, Sirius hadn't been able to do that until he already was sixteen. Peter was a bit proud of that, being younger and all. James had been even younger, but that was beside the point.

Peter missed the Marauders. True, he was directly responsible for killing one of them, indirectly two, and breaking them up, but he still missed his friends. He needed them. He supposed sometimes that he could have let himself be killed by Vo – You-Know-Who – that night now so long ago, but that would still have broken them all up, and Peter was embarrassedly, shamefully enough fond of his own life, even if some people didn't understand that.

Yes, he was a coward, and he knew it.

Peter had seen a Boggart only once. He had been lying in the Hospital Wing with dragonpox when they had learned about Boggarts at Hogwarts many, many years ago. So he didn't now what his teenage self had feared the most. He knew that if fears were rational, he now would see You-Know-Who when he encountered a Boggart. He was terrified of the half-man he had helped to return to life. The silver hand just wasn't enough to compensate for the freedom – freedom in hiding, but freedom nonetheless – he had lost. Not to mention his hand.

When Peter had met his Boggart, he had thought he was having a nightmare. Nightmares are not so bad. You wake up after the most horrible scene, you just have to endure it, and then it's over. Reality is much worse. You don't wake up.

So when James appeared and started to speak, it was nothing more than just another nightmare. _You betrayed us. How could you, Peter? We trusted you. Lily is dead, I am dead and Harry wishes he was dead. Did you hate us that much, Peter? Did you turn us over so you could laugh over our dead bodies? What, Peter? Are you scared? You should be, Pete. I'll avenge them. I'll avenge us. _

The blaming words cut deep, but he thought he wouldn't have to remember them when he woke up. It wasn't until Snape opened the door and started to say something Peter realized that this was for real. If you could call a Boggart for real. But before he had time to be afraid, Snape got rid of the James.

And Peter couldn't help but miss him a little more.

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**A/N: Likes? Loves? Hates? Reviews? **


	5. George

**A/N: Okay, sorry for the wait. Here goes!**

**Disclaimer: I disclaim. **

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**V: **_George_

They were twins. Fred and George, Gred and Forge.

They weren't two, they were one. One person in two identical bodies. If you saw one of them, you'd be sure the other was somewhere around. Nothing was too private for one of them so he couldn't tell the other. They did everything together. They were born on the same day, learned to walk the same week (although Fred was the first), pulled their first prank together, started school at the same time, had their first (and second, and third…) detention together, did their first homework together.

They shared the same dreams and goals. The same thoughts. They shared the same family, the same room, and the same friends. They shared sentences sometimes. Their bond was too strong for words. They shared everything.

Even fears.

They had had their first nightmare the same night, about the same thing. They had been four years old, but George still remembered both the night and the Dream clearly.

He had awakened nearly a minute before Fred had, and the only thing he could think was _he's gone, he's gone, he's gone_. When Fred had woken up, he hadn't been able to stop crying. Neither had Fred. _We weren't two_, George had said_. No, _Fred had hiccupped, _we weren't_. Their mother had tried to console them, but she didn't understand. She wasn't two, not like they were.

George had dreamed that Dream many times since. The settings and his age was different from time to time, but the dreams had always something in common. Fred wasn't there. In the beginning, he was there, doing something with George, pulling a prank maybe, and then he suddenly disappeared. Gone. And no matter how much George shouted for him to come back, he never did.

They always wanted to be where the other was. That was probably why they broke the detention record when they had been in Hogwarts a few years ago. If one of them got into trouble, the other had to too. Spending time alone wasn't an option. Of course it was terribly frustrating sometimes, to have an identical shadow, but it was worth it. If only to not feel abandoned.

The only time this year they had spent apart was now. They had been separated by the battle, Fred chasing one Death Eater and George chasing another. The only time the whole year they had spent more than ten or so minutes away from the other.

This was probably also a dream. The battle, the aftermath, everything. The Dream, horribly detailed with new settings. Because he had never dreamt Fred's body before. Not his empty eyes, cold body and still a half-smile on his lips. Not his brothers and parents, crying and staring, finally calming down after the battle, sitting beside him. It was so detailed, it almost felt real.

_We were not two_. His Mum gave him a strange look through her tears, but George barely noticed. _We _are_ not two. We're one_.

And in his mind, he could hear Fred laugh and say, _yes, we are one_. _Forever_, George said. _Yes_, Fred agreed. _Forever_.

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**Please review! If you've come this far into the story and never reviewed, you won't get any Christmas presents. Just so you know. **


	6. Severus

**A/N: I'm sorry for the delay! I know I said the chapter would be up yesterday, but this chapter was 1) the first chapter I hadn't written before I said when it would be up and 2) very hard to write. I have no idea if Snape is in character, and I'm not sure about what I think about this chapter, so _please_ review!**

**Okay. The timeline I use here is totally of my own imagination, and I have no idea if it's correct or not. In this fic, Lily and James were 21 when Harry was born in 1980, which means that they graduated in 1977. Snape was a Death Eater '77 'til '81, when Voldemort "died" the first time. He started to work at Hogwarts in '82. **

**Disclaimer: "J.K Rowling told me she didn't want the Potter-verse anymore, so she gave it to me." ("Really?" "No.") **

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**VI: **_Severus_

Severus had worked at Hogwarts for fourteen years. He had never really liked it. But it had been safe, with daily routines he had sorely missed the four years he had been a Death Eater full-time.

He didn't plan to work there another fourteen.

Severus had plans. Dreams, if you prefer it that way. He planned to travel. Not going on a long journey around the earth, just travel. To Paris, perhaps. He had had vacation there once, back in his schooldays. It hadn't been a very enjoyable stay, Tobias and Eileen Snape weren't known for their good mood, but the little Severus had seen had looked nice. And they had a wonderful Potions Academy in Paris, next to Louvren. If Dumbledore, the one and only, had worked at Louvren Academy instead of Hogwarts, Severus' life would be perfect. No Death-eating, no stupid, apathetic pupils who didn't want to learn anyway, no worrying.

At Hogwarts, life was much more complicated. The students were dense and lazy, the staff had a knack for talking too much about things that really didn't matter, and the Headmaster knew way too much about everything, and then managed to get Severus to do the things that needed to be done. Like killing him. Severus didn't look forward to that. Not because of what the rest of the world would say, but because of what the Headmaster would think. And because of the life that waited after the murder. Back to killing Muggle children in his spare time for fun. Severus really didn't understand the pleasure in torturing some pathetic, pitiful, screaming Muggles, but his act was as good as anyone else's.

But still, here he was, teaching a bunch of fifth year students about Dementors. Gryffindor and Slytherin, of course. Honestly, Severus didn't understand why the Headmaster insisted in putting Gryffindors and Slytherins in the same class. Trouble was inevitable. Severus almost wished himself back into the dungeons, where that incompetent Slughorn now undoubtedly ruined his potion ingredients by letting Gryffindors, or God forbid, **Hufflepuffs**, near them. But still, he had always thought that Defence against the Dark Arts (whoever came up with that unnecessarily long name for something so easy should be forced to write it five hundred times on a parchment with disappearing ink) was more interesting.

He cleared his throat. _Maybe some of _you, he emphasized the word you and sneered at the Gryffindor half of the room, _could tell me the effect of being near a Dementor_.

The Weaslette, _Ginny_, Severus remembered, put her hand in the air and decided to answer before he had had the time to acknowledge someone else.

_You get cold and they make you hear or see your worst fears_, she said and put her hand down again. Severus would have given points to her if she not had been a Gryffindor. Or rather, if she had been a Slytherin. _Then perhaps young Miss Weasley could tell me why it is possible to see one thing as your Boggart and another thing when in Dementor's company?_ He hoped she didn't know. His policy was to give at least two questions that were impossible to answer (except if your name were Granger, of course) every class. The Weaslette looked slightly uncertain and slowly shook her head_. No, sir. _

Severus could have smiled. He didn't. _For your information, Miss Weasley, a Dementor makes you relive your worst memory_ (how well didn't he know that, how many times hadn't he heard the screams, his own, **hers**, and thousands of others, two years ago when the Dementors had patrolled the Hogwarts grounds?) _while a Boggart, if you're unfortunate enough to meet one, can take the shape of your worst fear whether it's a memory or not. So, class, why are you not taking notes? _

Severus sat down behind his desk while the fifth years busied themselves with rummaging their bags, searching for quills or parchment. He wouldn't admit it, but he really shouldn't talk so much about fears. His dreams wouldn't be pleasant tonight. Vaguely, he recalled the last time he had met a Boggart. The Headmaster had been very surprised with finding a copy of himself with red eyes in Severus' personal quarters, Severus recalled. _Severus, what is the meaning of this?_ Dumbledore had asked, the twinkle in his eyes absent. _If I knew_, Severus had answered, while the Dumbledore-as-Dark-Lord had glared with red eyes at them both.

_Professor?_ a laughing voice (belonging to one of his Slytherins) asked. _How do you know that? It isn't in our textbooks. Does it apply to you, perhaps, Professor?_ Severus watched the student calmly. The boy fidgeted. _Wouldn't you like to know?_

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**Believeable? Spelling mistakes? Good, bad? **

**IMPORTANT NOTE: Next chapter is not written. It will be, don't worry, but I don't know when I will post it. It will probably be James, but I'm always open for suggestions (wink wink) **


	7. James

**A/N: Re-uploading the chapter after correcting some grammar errors. Just please review when you've finished reading, okay? Great!**

**Disclaimer: I would be flattered if you though I am J.K Rowling. Sadly, I am not. Sorry to burst your bubble.**

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**VII: **_James_

James was twenty-one years old. He was married to a beautiful woman (with temper, he had to add, but he would love her if she was the most foul-tempered woman on earth – she was his anyway, and that was what mattered) and had a fourteen-months-old son. He had friends, good friends, who he knew would stand by his side, as he would do for them. And though they were in the middle of a war, he was quite content with life as it was.

James had done a whole lot of things in his twenty-one years. He had broken his left arm twice the summer he turned six – by falling off a broom both times. He had befriended a werewolf (before he knew said person was a werewolf, but that was beside the point since he stayed friend with Remus after figuring out). He, Sirius, Remus and Peter had broken the record of most detentions in one year (their fourth, actually). He had become an Animagus, together with Sirius and Peter (their fifth year). He had asked the same girl out a total of 679 times, where 223 were seriously meant, before she agreed to go on a date. They had dated twenty-ish times before either had confessed they loved each other. He had become an Auror. He had joined the Order. He had married said girl. He had been beside himself with worry when Lily had given birth to their son – and beside himself with happiness afterwards. He had let Lily name Harry (he didn't think it was very important with names – your name didn't form your personality or anything, it just makes people remember who you are when they meet you on the street – but he couldn't deny being proud when she had named Harry after him).

Yes, he had done a lot of things. Not all good, of course. He was human, no matter how much Sirius teased him about his god-like appearance. He couldn't help being good-looking, just as Sirius couldn't help being related to his family. Sirius didn't think that was a very good simile, but as long as James got his point across, he didn't care about bad similes.

James **was** a lot of things, too. Long-winded, for example. He was handsome, loyal, temperamental, caring and a good fighter. He was impatient. He was, by all means, very badly suited for going into hiding. He enjoyed life when it raced. He had never needed time to calm down after a particularly hectic time in the Auror office. He just laughed and went upstairs to play with Harry, or to the local pub with Sirius or Remus and talked the night away.

The night Dumbledore had told him and his wife about the Prophesy, he and Lily had talked. They had argued, shouted, pleaded and tried to reason with one another, but eventually, James had agreed to go into hiding with her and Harry. _Don't you want Harry to have a real childhood?_ had been James' foremost defence. _Don't you want Harry to have a childhood at all?_ had been Lily's. James couldn't deny the truth of that statement.

He, Lily and Harry had been in hiding for almost a month now, and James was virtually itching to do something, **anything**, to help the Order in the war. But the only ones who they had seen, expect each other, for a month, had been Sirius and Peter, who kind of shared the responsibility of being their Secret Keeper. Sirius was in hiding himself, so he didn't know much of what was going on. Peter had been quite absent lately. Perhaps he was busy with Order work. So James was stuck in a place he didn't want to be, he didn't get any news and he couldn't help the Order more than a Flobberworm could have.

James sighed and put a sleeping Harry in his small bed in his room. Lily had painted it last week, so now it was a pale yellow with pale green stripes. James suspected Lily was just as bored as he was, she just hid it better.

Harry woke up and began to scream, and James startled. He shushed his crying son and picked him up again. _Harry… Harry, it's okay. You're just tired, Harry, so go back to sleep. Shh…_

As James rocked and comforted his son, he realized it was a possibility he would die in hiding. Never meeting the members of the Order with everyone there at the same time again. Never enjoying Diagon Alley's shops and cafés once more. Not shopping for his own Christmas presents for Harry and Lily, but trusting others to pick out something he could give them. Harry growing up without being able to go outside for a walk when he was angry, not being able to date or say something incredibly stupid to the girl he liked, since they all would be stuck here. The thought made him shiver.

_James?_ a tired voice asked from the doorway, and suddenly James saw himself and Lily as seventy-year-olds, she still painting the rooms in different colours and he still pacing a hole in the carpet, forever stuck in something they started to do at twenty-one. _Are you all right?_

_Yes_, he said, turning around to face his lovely wife, who he couldn't stand talking to at the moment. He managed a weak smile. _Go to bed, Lilyflower. You look tired_. She agreed, shot him a worried look and turned away. James turned back to his now quiet son and put him back in bed. _Goodnight, Harry. Sweet dreams_.

James met Lord Voldemort down in the re-painted hallway two months later. He shouted to Lily to get Harry and run, he was confident they would make it. _They will be safe, _he thought_. That's all that matters._ But he couldn't help but being the tiniest bit relieved, through the fear and determination to meet the Dark Lord straight on in a duel, and hopefully win. If he didn't... Well, Harry and Lily would miss him, but survive. They knew he loved them. _Either way, I'm free now_.

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**A/N: I know, I didn't actually name his fear. But I could picture James being claustophibic and not wanting to admit it. Couldn't you?**


	8. Hermione

**A/N: These things keep getting longer and harder to write. Gah. Sorry for the wait. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hermione or the Potter-verse. They belong to Jo Rowling. Her things.**

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**VIII: **_Hermione_

Hermione had seen a lot in her eighteen-years-old life. She often looked back at the children they had been, and smiled wistfully at the thought. She had gotten the letter from Hogwarts so long ago, over six years ago, and it had changed her life forever.

She had been overjoyed, of course, when she had gotten the acceptance letter. It explained so much, and when she finally got there, a month and a half from being twelve, it was better than her wildest dreams. For a while. Then, she realized what superficial girls the other two in her dorm was. They weren't the slightest interested in many of their classes. They talked about boys, love, and sometimes even sex, even though they hadn't even gotten their periods yet. Hermione, obviously, felt left out.

Then she met Harry and Ron. Well, **met** wasn't the right word. She had met them at the train, in the Great Hall at lunchtime and in lessons. But she actually felt as she had met two completely new persons that night in the girl's bathroom. They were brave, nice and after a while, they became her everything. Lavender and Parvati came with a few, quite mean, comments about her choice of friends – boys were still aliens or a possible love interest at the time, and they just couldn't see why she was friends with Harry or Ron, and she couldn't possibly fancy them both at the same time – but, in all, she was a great deal happier with her boys than with the girls.

Life, of course, wasn't perfect. She was frightened half to death in the end of her first year – **both** her boys in the Hospital Wing at the same time – and missed out a month or so of her second. Those horrible, yellow eyes plagued her nightmares for a terribly long time, so when Professor Lupin introduced her class to the concept of facing your fears in the beginning of her third year, she wasn't half as keen to face the Boggart as she made everyone think.

That was also the year when Sirius Black supposedly was after Harry, and she spent many hours in bed, not being able to sleep, and just thought. Worried. She would have liked to cry, to be held by someone who understood her – she just cared so much! – and for the first time since she had befriended Harry and Ron, she missed to have a best **girl**friend.

Then came the exams. Hermione was not a very active girl, more interested in books than sports, and the assault course Professor Lupin had prepared wasn't her favourite kind of test at all. But it went surprisingly well. She was secretly relieved, because she had seen Harry do a perfect race just minutes before, and it would have been terribly embarrassing if she could answer all questions perfectly, and knew the textbooks by heart, and then not even be able to get past a couple of stupid Hinkypunks.

Professor Lupin had explained the course very thoroughly, so she knew exactly what she could expect when she stepped inside the hollow log in the end of the track. Well, actually she didn't. She feared the huge, yellow Eyes, but she was almost sure she was past that. She knew they couldn't hurt anyone anymore.

The Boggart started to change the second she went inside. She saw glimpses of Professor McGonagall – _what did _she_ do in here?_ –, a cauldron, Scabbers, the yellow Eyes of a Basilisk and a glass of water. Then it settled on a something, lying on the floor. It looked like a pile of trash.

She couldn't help but being curious. She didn't have any idea what she feared the most, if she was past the Eyes. She stepped a bit closer, knowing very well that she probably shouldn't, and waited. It didn't move. _Hello?_ she said nervously, knowing very well that it was a particularly stupid thing to do. The trash could probably not understand her anyway. Then it spoke. _Hermione?_ it asked with a weak voice, and she grabbed her wand a bit tighter. _Hermione… don't leave me here_, it said, slowly, weakly. _Show yourself!_ she said with a great deal more confidence than she felt. _It's a Boggart_, she thought, _it's just a Boggart…_

It turned around, and she saw it, and it was Harry, and it was Ron. She couldn't explain how she knew, but it was her boys in one body, and they were horribly, terribly pale, and bleeding, and **dead**. They stretched out their hand towards her, a hand missing a finger, and she backed away, and forgot it was only a Boggart when she looked them in the face, and saw Harry's eyes without life, and Ron's hair, long and dirty. She screamed. Somehow she got past them, they still murmuring _please don't leave me here_, and came out in the sunlight. She ran towards her boys, shocked and relieved, _they're in their own bodies, thank God_, and tried to stop panting. It was then she realized how stupid it was of her to be afraid of ghosts when it was so much other things, real things, to be afraid of. She said something stupid about McGonagall and failing her subjects, still trying to stop shivering. She didn't mind Ron teasing her about her supposed fear when they got back to the castle, because he was fine, and Harry was fine, and they were **alive**.

She almost saw her fear come true more times than she wanted to recall. Harry and Ron the night Pettigrew escaped, Harry after the Third Task, Harry and Ron after the Department of Mysteries, Ron lying poisoned in the Hospital Wing, Ron getting attacked by Death Eaters the night Dumbledore was murdered. But each time, they turned out just fine. One more scar, physical or emotional, but still alive and well.

She couldn't help but think that perhaps their time was up, even though she didn't believe in destiny, and that sometimes this year, while on Horcrux hunt, her fear would come true. What is even more frightening, she thought Harry thought that in the end, if he died but killed Voldemort, it would be worth it. And that if Ron died, trying to protect Harry or her, he would die satisfied. And she was so scared to lose either.

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**A/N: I don't know, Hermione's worst fear being failing her subjects just doesn't feel right after all they've been through. Tell me off if I'm wrong.**

**I really need feedback and requests, they make me write faster and better, so please tell me what you think if you want me to continue. I want at least five reviews before I update! wink wink **


	9. Draco

**A/N: Thanks so much for all the reviews for the last chapter! You are all wonderful. I always try to reply to the (signed) reviews I get, since I love when I get replies. Let me know if it's worth the time, hm? And yeah, please review this chapter as well. I'm actually quite happy with it, but tell me what you think. (If you find any spelling or grammar errors, please tell me as well. It doesn't get right _all_ the time, you know.)**

**I know, a bit late. I hope you enjoy anyway! **

**Disclaimer: I'm not totally sure I would want to own Harry Potter anyway. Sounds like a busy job. Means, me no own. **

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**IX: **_Draco_

Draco had had a lonely childhood. Not that he missed friends, of course. _Malfoys do not need anyone else_. He was born in Malfoy Manor in February the year 1980. As he was an only child, and there weren't any other pure-bloods in the neighbourhood, he didn't see a lot of people, beside his parents, before he turned seven. This was also the age when his Father – and Mother – considered him grown enough to always act a Malfoy, and it was therefore safe to bring him when they had to go to grown-up parties. Draco had hated those socials when he was seven, but that just wasn't something he could tell Father. But he had yet to show any signs of his magic.

He met his first – well, in lack of a better word – friend of the same age, when he was nine years old. Pansy Parkinson was stupid but quite cute, was his assessment to his Mother after a day spent with the girl. Mother had smiled as kindly as any Malfoy (or Black) could, before agreeing. When Mother asked if Draco liked the girl, he shrugged. She was much more fun than any of Father's friends from the socials, anyway. But he had yet to show any signs of magic.

Much later, in his third year at Hogwarts, he realized he had been introduced to the girl he was supposed to marry.

Draco got his Hogwarts letter a day late. This made Father furious. Draco had started to worry himself that afternoon, the 15th of July, but Father wasn't worried about that apparently, Draco hadn't been accepted into the school. He was harassed with the thought that perhaps Draco was a Squib, and that would disgrace the pure-blood name of Malfoys for all eternity. Father's scornful and sarcastic words that accompanied every blow and strike to Draco's face haunted him that night. When he went down for breakfast the next day, the letter lied on his empty plate, and Father acted as if nothing had happened. Draco did as well, and the bruises and scars were gone long before September 1st. He hadn't showed any signs of accidental magic, but since his new wand worked very well, Father said that perhaps he was just very good at controlling his magic. Draco assumed he was right, since that was more in his benefit. His face's benefit, at least.

He always told everyone, if they cared enough to ask, what he thought about the Dark Lord. Namely, he told them exactly what Father had told him. It was first at the Quidditch World Cup he realized what a life as a Death Eater would be – always in fear, never trusting anyone to show them your face. The non-trusting bit he could live with, he thought back then, it was the fear he didn't like. _Malfoys do not fear_. They can worry, but they do not fear. So he told himself he didn't fear anyone, since that was what Father had told him. And he certainly didn't fear Father. Not even when he would yell (with dignity, of course, _Malfoys never lose their dignity_) at Draco, since he once again would be surpassed in school by a Mud-Blood and in Quidditch by **Potter**. He didn't fear his Father's wrath.

Then, came fifth year. Best year this far, in his opinion. And, of course, he was right. _Malfoys are always right_, and if they, against all odds, are wrong, they are wrong with their dignity intact, as they never lose their dignity. But this year, he was wrong. With dignity. Father was caught by the Ministry. He had never thought he would. The Dark Lord had promised Father ennoblement beyond his dreams, if he managed to get something from the Department of Mysteries. Not only did Father fail, he got sent to Azkaban. Without his dignity.

And not even then, when Father was in prison and he had a mission to execute – literally – could he bring himself to fear the Dark Lord. As _Malfoys do not fear_. All he has to do was to succeed, and then he would have his glory. And _Malfoys do not fail_, and if they do, they fail with dignity, always dignity. What he feared, and had feared since he was eleven (even though he didn't fear, never feared, _Malfoys do not fear_), wasn't even Father. Father worried him, that was all. What he feared was what had caused Father's wrath the first time around, and it came true a chilly summer night the year he should have started his seventh year, because of his failure (with dignity, always with dignity, but it had not been with dignity, and he knew it). The Dark Lord took Father's wand. And Father blamed him. _We'll share yours,_ said Father and smiled as evilly as any Malfoy could, and took his wand.

And Draco lost his magic, and he lost his identity, and he lost the last remains of his dignity, and he couldn't fool himself anymore with his Father's lies. Because when had Malfoys really been fearless?

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**Logically enough? Good enough? (I can spell out "dignity" faster than "fast" now )) **

**Please review! I know at least two people who've got this on alert and never reviews. That's lower than Glocalnet. (Ask if you wonder ))**


	10. MadEye

**A/N: Believe me, I am sorry for making you wait every time. But these weeks have been really hectic, I've been sick, so this time, I actually have an excuse. But sorry, anyway. And yes, I know it's a bit short. Sorry for that, too. Please leave a review when you've finished!**

**Disclaimer: I'm JK Rowling. I own the Harry Potter-verse. And then I wake up, and I'm just little me again. Yeah. **

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**X: **_Mad-Eye _

Mad-Eye Moody had been an Auror for almost twenty years. That had made him something of a legend. Brave, unwavering, (_paranoid_), fearless Mad-Eye Moody. The legend, the pride of the Auror Department, some people even thinking he should take charge. Scrimgeur simply hadn't been in the business as long as he had. Scrimgeur simply hadn't the same calming effect on dangerous missions as he had. Scrimgeur simply weren't as good at tracking, chasing, hunting, fighting, as Mad-Eye Moody was. Everyone knew, and everyone knew also that it was because of this Scrimgeur was in charge, having a desk job, while Mad-Eye Moody still was out in the field.

He knew what the newbies called him. He knew that "paranoid" was the kindest thing they said. Crazy, senile, insane, non-trusting Mad-Eye Moody. But still, they listened to him. Good thing they did, too, otherwise many of them would have died. Constant vigilance.

But not everyone listened. Not everyone thought that a bit (_a lot_) of advice from a paranoid old Auror who had been in more battles than he could count, would be worth listening to. _Those were failures_, he told himself, _not worth losing sleep over_. But he did. Because, despite them being failures, they were **his** failures. Young, brave, (_reckless_), dreaming failures. He had trained them all, he had seen potential, he had seen a wish to accomplish something in their pitiful, brief, existence. And he could never understand why he survived (_why he deserved to survive_) every single (_blasted_) battle, while the young, brave, (_reckless_), dreaming Aurors rarely did.

_Constant vigilance_ was the first thing he told every single new wanna-be that came to ask where you signed up for your very first Auror training, _you think you can remember that so I don't have to wipe you off the floor with a rag_, and every single new wanna-be told him, _yes, sir, I'll remember that_.

And very, very rarely, they remembered. And very, very often, Mad-Eye Moody had to inform yet another father that his son or daughter had died in the battle of so-and-so, and very, very often, Mad-Eye Moody had to inform yet another mother that her son or daughter currently resided at St Mungos, and were unlikely to ever wake up, or regain use of her leg, or die from blood-loss. And always, these times, he felt like trash. _Why hadn't he protected him or her better, why hadn't he insisted on a little more time of training, why hadn't he why hadn't he why hadn't he… _And always, for every time, he insisted on a little better results from a new recruit, a little longer time for training, a little more alertness, a little more constant vigilance. Not too much to ask for. It was, after all, Mad-Eye Moody who had to face the grieving, shocked, blaming parents. And Mad-Eye Moody took all the blame, for it was his duty. He had failed.

Whoever said Mad-Eye Moody was fearless was wrong.

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**A/N: I want to thank everyone who have reviewed this story. You guys are wonderful! If it weren't for you, I'd have stopped writing ages ago. So, thanks. **

**There is this little blue-lilac-ish button right at your left. Click it and type a message for me, and I'll click the 'reply'-button later and type a little message for you. Deal. It would at least make me happy!**


	11. Bill

**A/N: So... This is what happens when I let me stray into reading fanfics instead of writing. I stop posting for half a year. If I say sorry, will you believe me?**

**And thanks for the alerts and favourites! It always makes me smile. Though... something even better is reviews or PM's. It is those that makes me want to post things here. So I know you haven't abandoned me, _please_ review. Now, on to the disclaimer:**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize. Except for the timeline, which I suspect is incorrect. **

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**XI: **_Bill_

Bill Weasley had six younger siblings. He was a man now, an adult; he was twenty-six years old. He had a full-time paying job at Gringotts, working nine to six. He was newly married to a beautiful woman who was six years younger than him. He had six scratches across his face, a testimony of his encounter with Fenrir Greyback. And in six months, his wife would give birth to his first child.

It had been March when they found out. Late March. Now, it was late April in Shell Cottage, and his and Fleur's house hadn't been this crowded since they first moved there, with Weasley's all over the place, trying to help. True, it had been even worse with Ollivander there as well. And the small party they had had yesterday to honour little Teddy Lupin had made the place seem more packed than it was. But, with his youngest brother and the rest of the trio, and Dean Thomas and the young girl Lovegood, plus a goblin, in the house, it was hard to find any time for him and Fleur alone. And they needed that desperately.

He didn't blame anyone, of course. It was not their fault. But he and Fleur… they needed to decide what they were going to do now. Needed to decide names for the baby. Needed to decide how or even if they were going to fight when they were needed on the field. Needed to make the spare bedroom to their child's bedroom. Needed to decide who would be Godfather or Godmother. Needed to think.

But suddenly, his brother, Harry and Hermione disappeared with the goblin to somewhere. And the place became too quiet instead, even with Thomas and the Lovegood-girl there, and couldn't concentrate. He didn't dare. Instead, he calmed Fleur down as much as he could – _we knew they would go soon, love, they can't hide forever… yes, of course they'll be all right… they've done this before… and soon everything will calm down a bit, and we can have some time of our own_ – with lies neither of them believed, and paced. He worried for his family. For his mother, father, brothers and – _oh God_ – sister who wasn't even a legal adult yet. For his wife. For his unborn child. Six months lack of life, and already the centre of his life.

Then came the call. The call for help, because all help is needed, and we'll lose without help, come to Hogwarts as soon as you hear this, we are going to fight. And he kissed a still yelling, still crying Fleur, _please, love, stay safe, I couldn't concentrate with you there, for our child, Fleur, please just listen_, and left, his now (_almost_) stony and cold heart fearing that he was right. _How could I concentrate with almost all my family there? What if I turned around to see one of them dead, what would I do? And what if the next death would be my fault?_

And still, he left. Once, before he had turned twenty-six, before he had married a woman six years younger than him, who now carried his child, six months lack of life, Bill had been a Gryffindor.

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**A/N: Please let me know what you think! Oh, and there's a poll up on my author's page (click on my name, you'll find it) about which characters you want to read about here. Go check!**


	12. Neville

**A/N: Can you see her update WWAF? Nah, she can't have, she never does. **

**But now she has! Thank **_bookwormandpoet_**, everybody, who left me the most wonderful, inspiring review telling me to, in no uncertain terms, to get back to this piece and update. So I did. The morale of this story is that reviews make me write. Enough said :P**

**Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling. Never said I was.

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_**XII: **Neville_

His Gran was almost ancient, and her parents had been Lions, Gryffindors. She had been a Lion, her son had been a Lion, and almost all her relatives had been Lions. She should know the traits of a true Gryffindor, a true Lion, shouldn't she?

So Neville had almost panicked when the Sorting Hat had said he'd do _very well, very well indeed_, in Hufflepuff, because he wanted to prove himself. _Loyal friends_, it had said, _loyal friends and like-minded is what you need, yes, I think I know exactly where to put you_…

Harry and Neville had spoken about the Sorting Hat once, many years later, and both had been very sure you could persuade the Hat to Sort you into the House you wanted. Neither asked where the Hat had wanted to Sort the other, because frankly, they didn't really need to know.

But he was a true Gryffindor.

The first time someone told him that was the end of first year, when he had earned Gryffindor ten points and caused them to win the House Cup. He tried to protest a little at first while grinning like a idiot – _but the only thing I did was to try to stop them, how could that be brave when… _– but then he stopped voicing those thoughts, because no one seemed to care really **what** he had done, just **that **he had done it. Then, a sixth-year girl had told him, while smiling at him and waving with her hat among all the other celebrating Gryffindors, that it seemed he was just as brave as any other of their house, and who'd have thought? In hindsight, it wasn't really a nice comment, but Neville had only grinned even wider and voiced a heartfelt _thanks!_

He'd tried to apologize to Ron and Hermione a while later, when Harry was in the boy's bathroom_. If it weren't for me, you would've gotten there much earlier_, he had said glumly and hung his head. Hermione had smiled and told him not to worry and that she was sorry as well for leaving him like that but they had all done what they thought was best, hadn't they, he should really stop thinking like he had done something wrong, it had earned them the House Cup, and poor Slytherins, having their victory taken from them so abruptly, but still we won, didn't we, and it was all thanks to him.

Neville had been a little overwhelmed with the answer, but grateful as well.

The next time someone told him that was many, many years later. And in between those two _you really are a Gryffindor _he heard many, many _I thought Gryffindors were supposed to be brave? _and _show some courage, Longbottom! _and _well, well, isn't it the misplaced Squib? _

So, really, he didn't think he was a true Gryffindor. He had his moments, sure, but if he had no control over his actions during those moments, were they really courage? Perhaps they were some sort of instinct? Like, say, an animal automatically protecting their offspring. That's not really courage, right? And if his own Gran didn't believe in him, if his guardian was displeased with his actions… well, she couldn't exactly be wrong, could she?

Then, Dumbledore died. The war had, until then, been kind of distant. Even when Diggory died, the war had been distant, since Diggory had been a Hufflepuff, not a Gryffindor, and Neville had never known him. Had he allowed the Hat to place him in the House it had wanted to, however… And even when Neville had gone with Harry and Luna and the rest to the Ministry after the History OWL exam, (_and he had been so very afraid, scared to death almost_), it had felt distant. Neville had never known Sirius Black, and frankly, he still wondered if he would have wanted to, mass murderer or not. He wasn't that brave, after all.

But that summer after Dumbledore had been murdered changed him. He realised that children couldn't fight, shouldn't fight, in wars, so he grew up. Gran noticed, and for the first time ever, he thought that maybe she was proud of him. A pity that now he didn't need her approval anymore. He had become a soldier. The most scared soldier ever, perhaps, but a soldier.

He, Ginny and Luna made as much noise as possible now, because the silence of Harry, Ron and Hermione's absence was too loud. They recruited new members for Dumbledore's Army, and Merlin, this time the DA was needed. But the most important thing they did was to take care of their own. The first year Lions, third year Ravenclaws, the Hufflepuffs needed their help.

And a few times, when Neville snuck down into the dungeons to free Seamus or Ernie or Dennis (_you shouldn't really have said that to Snape, you _knew_ he'd do something like this, Dennis… just keep your mouth shut next time, he'll get what's coming to him…_) or one too small first or second or third year who were practically shaking from the cold, and when he on the way back ran into a Ravenclaw prefect, or Professor Sinistra, or once even Professor McGonagall, they would shake their heads, mutter, _only a Gryffindor… come on, run, you know what the Carrows will do to you if they find you here!_, and pretend not to see the pair.

And Neville knew all too well what the Carrows or Snape would do to him if he was caught, and the first or second or third year knew it too, and Neville grabbed his or her arm, and took the younger student back to the dormitory with instructions on what to say if one of the less nice Professors asked why he or she wasn't still chained to a wall, and he felt scared to death, when he snuck back into bed. Because he knew what the Carrows would do if they ever got to know that it was him who had rescued the kid.

And then it would get even worse, because he couldn't just stop rescuing the kids, could he? That wouldn't be very fair. So they would know who had rescued the new kid as well, and then they'd find a pattern, find that it was always DA members who unlocked the chains and doors, and the punishments wouldn't be games anymore. They wouldn't just affect him if that happened – they'd use his friends, his family. And that scared Neville more than he wanted to admit.

But he'd do it anyway.

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**Story Suggestion**: The comment Hermione makes about Slytherin having the victory so brutally taken from them in the end of Philosopher's Stone, is because of an amazing one-shot by Bluebird88, _Well Done, Slytherin_. Go read. It makes you think. But first; review, please! ^^


	13. Lavender

**Disclaimer: I own medieval clothes. I own a bronze medal from the Swedish Fencing National Cup. I own a violin. I don't own Harry Potter.**

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_**XIII: **Lavender_

People mostly saw her as a shallow, superficial girl with limited wits, but in reality, Lavender Brown was quite intelligent. She often thought she should have been placed in Slytherin instead of Gryffindor, because of her lies which no one ever saw through.

She was pretty, growing into beautiful, and yes, she knew it. But beauty wasn't all there was in life. She sometimes pitied Parvati, who actually believed in all the platitudes they repeated at night –meaningless, comforting lies young girls tell each other when the boy next door rejects them for not being pretty or funny enough. Lavender had simply grown up, and left Parvati behind.

She didn't dislike Parvati, though; she was fun to be around, and had helped Lavender a lot the first few months at Hogwarts, when Lavender had known next to nothing about the world she had been thrown into. No, but the idea of Divination simply wasn't as interesting anymore, now when she had realised what she had known all along – that Trelawney's Inner Eye really needed glasses, as Ron Weasley once had said –, if you happened to forget your makeup once, it wasn't really a disaster, and gossip didn't take you through a war.

For it was a war. Lavender knew this, and she also knew that as a Gryffindor, she was supposed to help. Fight. She had known about the war since the end of the Triwizard Tournament, when a deathly pale Harry Potter had reappeared clutching an actually dead Cedric Diggory, since the ending feast, when Dumbledore had affirmed what the school already suspected, that Lord Voldemort was back, since the hag Umbridge had refused to hear people out when they spoke about his return. So when Hermione spoke to her and Parvati one night, somewhat vaguely, about Harry holding a meeting about teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts, she straight out manipulated Parvati into going.

She wasn't disappointed. Harry knew what he was doing, and in a way, that was a little bit scary, since he was at least two months younger than her, and already fighting.

Now, over half a year later, when three Gryffindors in her year alone lay in the Hospital Wing getting treated for curses cast by Death Eaters, when another fifth year Gryffindor had dead eyes though he was still alive, and Hermione, when she finally got released by Madam Pomfrey, had nightmares every night, she knew that the war had just begun.

And the problem was that Lavender really, really didn't want to fight in a war.

It was almost morning, and it was dark in the fifth year Gryffindor girl's dormitory, where three completely different girls lay in their beds, either sleeping or trying to. Hermione made small, frightened noises in her sleep, and Lavender knew that she once again had a nightmare. She was also almost sure of what it consisted. _Dark men in coats, colourful curses. _

_Pain__, loss. _

_Death._

Was it so very, very wrong of her, to not want that for herself? To want others to deal with it?

She was probably the most cowardly Gryffindor there ever was. If it wasn't for the prejudice the Slytherins had against everyone who wasn't pureblood, she probably would have fit in better with them. Because all the lies she had surrounded herself with, so tightly she barely knew what was her and what was lies anymore, couldn't do much in a war. What could a superficial Gryffindor do, when she wasn't really superficial and not really a Gryffindor either? When was she a child and when was she a soldier? How much was her duty to do, and when should she let go of her lies, stand tall and ignore what others thought?

And why, why did she feel the need to do so now, when people was dying and being tortured and the war was so very close, why now, when a superficial school girl had nothing to fear? Why would she need to feel needed, like she was doing something?

Hermione made the frightened noise again, and in her mind, Lavender joined in.

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**Comments would be nice..?**


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